


The Landlord

by Virodeil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Changing lives forever, Character Development, Character Study, Family, Family Bonding, Family History, Friendship, Gen, Harry Potter Has a Different Name, Unexpected Family Relations, character introspection, different background, more tags added as we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:20:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28751301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virodeil/pseuds/Virodeil
Summary: Teal’c attempts to live “normally” among the Taur’i civilians for the second time, soon after the first. For various reasons, he chooses to board in a flat above a bakery, sharing it with the bakery’s owner, one Henry Evans… otherwise Harry James Potter.In hindsight, he should have chosen another place… maybe… or not.
Relationships: Harry Potter & SG-1 Team, Harry Potter & Teal’c (Stargate), SG-1 Team & SG-1 Team (Stargate)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 65





	1. The Mysterious Man

**Author's Note:**

> _(Multicrossover, with Harry Potter and Stargate: SG-1 as the main fandoms. Canon up to Stargate: SG-1 Episode 8.7: Affinity and Harry Potter and the Half-blood Prince.)_
> 
> Folks, I’d like to confess that I have never written from SG-1’s POV, before, while this story is from Teal’c’s first-person POV. This fandom is still quite new to me, as well, so, for all that, please pardon the lack of detail and depth.

The three-story building that houses the dessert shop – absurdly named Magical Munches – sits on a generous plot of land just inside of the city. To call it a café would be more apt, according to Major Carter, as the building is surrounded by landscaped gardens and ponds , and people can choose to sit by them to enjoy the scenery they offer. But whatever the name is, or however it is laid out, the property remains a place to eat and relax, like Major Carter sometimes does in her “down time.”

The eatery is about two years old, while the property has sat there for much longer beforehand, or so Major Carter said. The owner and sole keeper of the shop is a young man with red hair and blue eyes by the name of Henry Evans. He lives on the topmost level of the building, and has agreed to share the space there with “an unintrusive tenant.”

Well, I would like to think that I fit the criterion. And Major Carter agreed.

**O-O-O-O**

Magical Munches is very, very busy, presently. It is visible even before O’Neill’s car that brings me and my comrades enters through the open front gate of the property. The paved parking area that lies right beyond the gate is full of cars and motorcycles, even a small truck, and people mill about in small crowds among the greeneries beyond the parking area.

O’Neill makes a low sound of disappointment, as he carefully guides the car on the lane between the rows of parked vehicles. “Damn. Wanna try their fishing,” he grumbles. Then, in a louder voice, he addresses Major Carter who sits on the back passenger row with me, “Call that friend of yours, will you, Carter? See if that fishing-pier seating is still available? I’ll try to find the nearest parking lot and we can walk from there if he says yes.”

“We’re here for Teal’c, you know, Jack, not for your fishing,” Daniel Jackson pipes in amusedly from his seat to O’Neill’s right, while Major Carter is executing O’Neill’s order.

“Two birds with one stone. Ever heard of that, Danny-Boy?” O’Neill rebuts readily. “You don’t mind, do you, Teal’c?” He glances to me through the car’s rearview mirror.

“I do not, O’Neill,” I affirm, giving him a small smile, then add as a playful afterthought, “As long as you do not jeopardise my chances of having another experience living among the Taur’I civilians.”

It is always nice, to be able to talk so to one’s superior, something that I would never have dreamt of doing to Apophis or another Goa’uld. And as Daniel Jackson breaks into laughter while O’Neill pouts theatrically, I revel afresh that this superior is _also_ my _friend_.

**O-O-O-O**

Henry Evans is a striking person, in my opinion, despite his unassuming clothes and behaviour. The most apparent aspect that I notice about him is that he carries himself like a warrior on leave, instead of an ignorant civilian. His eyes are watchful and take in everything quickly and thoroughly, while his bearing signifies readiness to move at a moment’s notice. I would not be surprised if he had a few small weapons concealed about his person and would utilise them quickly and unhesitatingly, even when he is noting down our meals at present.

It would be a boon and a problem, should he accept me living here when not on mission. It would be hard to conceal what I and my comrades do with Stargate Command; and yet, it would be a pleasure to once again live in close quarters with a fellow warrior in a more domestic setting, like what I experienced on Chulak.

But for now, I am going to enjoy the sight of O’Neill trying to wheedle Henry Evans about renting this small deck jutting out onto the side of a large pond on a semi-permanent basis.

**O-O-O-O**

“I’ll never understand how you could have so many customers on a weekday, while it isn’t a meal rush,” Major Carter remarks as she absent-mindedly fiddles with a small, broken wristwatch that Henry Evans has just delivered to her alongside our meals.

“You know it’s a trade secret, right, Sam?” Henry Evans grins affably. “It’s your fault for not calling me before you came here. Now you got to wait till I have time to show you round.”

“Eh, um, sorry, but why didn’t you hire assistants for this?” Daniel Jackson puts in; uncertainly, as he often does when outside of the matters that he is an expert in.

“Oh, I do,” Henry Evans laughs. “They just don’t show themselves. Quite shy. So here I am, the front of the business.”

I raise an eyebrow. There is _something_ behind his words that niggles at me. But I do not know Henry Evans _yet_ , so I shall not pry, _for now_. It would not do if he judged me intrusive before I had the chance to attempt living here.

He takes off with a brief goodbye when the individuals seated at the adjacent pier calls for his attention. the only persons who reply to his farewell are Daniel Jackson and I, however, as Major Carter is already deep in her tinkering of the broken wristwatch, while occasionally reaching out for her dish of flavoured potato slices.

As for O’Neill, well, he has been deeply enjoying both his fishing and the morning sunlight warming us, contented as I have ever seen him, and he has not spoken a word after failing to wheedle Henry Evans for renting this pier for his use on a semi-permanent basis.

And then Daniel Jackson, too, falls into reverie, idly sketching runes with a felt-tipped pen on a piece of cloth that Major Carter once explained is for protecting a person’s attire from spills from food and drink while eating.

It leaves me enjoying my own dishes of lasagna and garlic bread in peace, without removing myself from the companionship of those I cherish as brothers and sister.

It is perfect.

**O-O-O-O**

“Mister Jackson, is it? Might I ask you something?” Henry Evans, taking a rest from serving his customers, seats himself uninvited between Major Carter and Daniel Jackson, and stares at the written-on serviettes that litter the surface of the table before the latter. His gaze is unreadable, but I spied shock flitting past his countenance before it shut down.

“Where did you see those squiggles?” he asks when Daniel Jackson hums absent-mindedly. “Where did you learn them?”

_Learn_. My mind catches on that word. _Learn_. So, apparently, Henry Evans does not really think that what Daniel Jackson has written are mere “squiggles”.

“Oh, um, erh, places, different places, lots of places,” Daniel Jackson flounders, apparently having been torn mid-thought from his next piece of writing. “Lectures, dictionaries, reference books, archeological sites….” He catches himself before he can say more, and I am relieved that he still has the presence of mind not to disclose more sensitive information to this semi-civilian.

Henry Evans contemplates Daniel Jackson for a moment longer, then switches his attention to me.

The full force of his gaze is… staggering. It is impassive as I first thought, but at the same time there are immense power and shadows and _otherness_ lurking behind it, like a sturdy-looking sheet of ice covering the surface of a deep, dark body of water full of unknown creatures.

Henry Evans is far more dangerous than any single Goa’uld. Henry Evans is _not_ a human, either, of Taur’i or otherwise, although he is in the guise of one.

Henry Evans also _somehow_ reminds me of someone else who bore the same eye colour, shape and depth, a Jaffa older than Master Bra’tac, but I have to set aside such similarity for the time being, as he addresses me directly, “Will you keep secrets for the sake of another person, Mister Teal’c?”

_Will_ , not _can_ , I note. Henry Evans is apparently not only powerful, but also quite perceptive, to be able to judge one’s character after so brief an acquaintance. I wonder what he will get out of observing me, then, should we share a living space with each other in the coming days.

But I am no novice in such matter, myself, and perhaps he noticed this, _as well_ , hence his question. He asks not only for his own sake but also for the sake of those he protects.

So I tell him, frankly, “As long as the secrets are not harmful to my person and interests or those of whom I protect or answer to.”

“And what would you constitute ‘harmful’?” he inquires further.

O’Neill has stopped enjoying his fishing by now, judging from the stiffening of his back and shoulders as seen from the corner of my eye. His reaction most likely stems from the questioning, but I do not mind the inquiries, myself. Henry Evans _really_ seems to be taking steps to protect himself and/or others by digging into my intentions, and I can relate to that.

“Loss of life, or health, or welfare, or freedom,” I list carefully. “Matters, events, actions and intentions that will lead to such losses sooner or later, as well.”

He nods, just as O’Neill finally turns round to face us and bluntly asks him why he asked me such questions.

He is not surprised _at all_ by the fact that O’Neill has been listening in.

“I am one person in a community that would like to be just left alone,” he explains calmly. “Sam knew about this much and didn’t ask for more. But if Mister Teal’c still means to share the flat with me, we need to come to an arrangement of mutual disclosure. I refuse to have to hide things this big in my own home, and I would not be comfortable with my flatmate doing the same to me, too.”

Ah, I was right.

I cock a querying eyebrow at him. “How many of you are on this world?” I rejoin, quietly.

He shrugs. “Compared to the whole population? Just a handful. Still many, though, if the number is isolated.”

“A thousand? Hundred thousand? A million?” O’Neill pursues the matter, a little more aggressively than I would have thought.

Henry Evans tears his gaze away from me at last, and transfers it to O’Neill. Judging from the small, sharp breath that O’Neill has just taken, the latter has just been treated to the same inscrutable, inhuman look that I was treated to.

“I am not certain,” our host says at length, slowly, as if thinking deeply while speaking. “I never cared to know. My homeland has a few thousand, though, I think.”

“United kingdom?” O’Neill pries further. On Henry Evans’ nod, he continues with, “Why’re you so far away here?”

“New scenery,” Henry Evans smiles, although it looks forced to me.

O’Neill apparently thinks similarly, for he opens his mouth again. But before he can speak, Henry Evans raises a hand, a not-so-surprisingly very commanding, lordly gesture, and preempts him, “Let’s talk soon. I’ll close up early. The regulars are used to that. I’ll just make up for it tomorrow. I’m not comfortable talking in the open like this. If you’d pry away Sam and Mister Jackson from their toys, Sam could lead you to my living room.”

“Should I know why Sam knows where your living room is?” O’Neill changes subjects just as quickly, but he seems to have relaxed a little.

Henry Evans grins. “Ask her,” he says. “If she doesn’t want you to know, it’s her call.”

And then, just so, he vanishes among the crowds of customers, greeting people here and there in his quiet, unassuming manner; invisible, unnoticeable, forgetable.

Yes, he is dangerous, very dangerous, this way.

**O-O-O-O**

“I tell you, he’s not human,” O’Neill blurts out when, just as our company reaches the top level of the building, Henry Evans is already waiting, seated in a single-seater couch on the corner between two adjoining walls that overlooks both the stairs we came from and the rest of the open living area beyond this egress point.

The young man raises an eyebrow and smirks, looking amused instead of offended by the honest assertion. Or perhaps he is amused by the way Daniel Jackson digs an elbow into O’Neill’s ribs in reproach instead of by O’Neill’s words. In any case, he welcomes us to sit in the other two couches – a two-seater and a three-seater, set at an angle to the single-seater he occupies – warmly enough.

Before any of the guests could greet him properly, however, he looks specifically at Daniel Jackson and asks, “Could I look at the napkins you drew on?”

“Uh, well, it’s yours; I mean, the napkins are yours,” Daniel Jackson, who has just settled into the two-seater beside Major Carter, stutters, caught off guard. “The writing is just… jibberish.”

The eyebrow climbs higher on Henry Evans’ forehead, practically blending with his ragged fringes. Something both calculating and pensive visits his countenance briefly, before it settles into an odd look caught between playful teasing and deadly gravity. “Jibberish can mean something, for the individuals who can read it,” he posits carefully.

Daniel Jackson sits up straight and looks back intently at him. “You recognise what I was writing?”

Henry Evans shrugs.

The pieces of written-on squares of cloth change hands.

And then Henry Evans _reads_ the symbols, silently, with barely an effort, as if he had read such script many, many times before.

O’Neill and I, seated at either end of the three-seater, stare at each other with widened eyes.

The symbols that Daniel Jackson drew on the squares of cloth belong to the script of _the Ancients_.


	2. Ties That Bind

Procuring and signing non-disclosure contracts on both sides has seen me waiting for a week before I can visit Magical Munches again, let alone contemplating sharing a house with Henry Evans. But the young man – more a youth, really, a “teenager” as the Taur’i say it – did manage to convince us that he needs to protect the secrecy of his community for our sake, his and the community’s alike, so I waited. And presently, I am at last visiting the establishment with O’Neill, Major Carter and Daniel Jackson again, having signed our respective contracts yesterday.

Henry Evans is already standing just outside of the parking lot, on the mouth of the lane that I know will bring visitors to the eating area. He looks both nervous and eager, openly so, and it lends him the air of a youth who is training with true weapons for the first time.

He reminds me of Rya’c and the many marks of my son’s development that I missed witnessing, having been away as Apophis’ First Prime – and, later, Apophis’ active enemy – for so often and so long.

The juxtaposition becomes harder to ignore when Henry Evans focuses solely on me after greeting my comrades, and he leads us away – _with more enthusiasm_ – only after I incline my head at him.

Thankfully, once we are settled in the living area of his quarters atop the establishment, Henry Evans bids us to try a “magical drink” he calls butterbeer, and I become preoccupied with the warmth and richness exuding from the beverage instead of ruminating on regrets. It helps that Major Carter soon begins to argue that there is no noticeable special effect that she can detect from the so-called magical drink, as the warmth and richness of the brew is explainable with spices and brewing technics.

Daniel Jackson’s gaze meets my own, while Henry Evans patiently tells Major Carter that the difference would be much more noticeable in cold environment, and, no, he doubts that she will notice anything outwardly magical if she tests for it, even with her best equipment. It is O’Neill who speaks, however, instead of Daniel Jackson.

Intentionally aloud, at that, judging from the amusement in his eyes.

“Damn. We’re losing her.”

Major Carter looks as if she would dearly like to smack O’Neill’s arm with her hand, like she sometimes does to Daniel Jackson.

Well, but she _does_ reach out and smack Henry Evans’ arm, when the latter snickers at her. So, apparently, she considers Henry Evans her friend, perhaps even comparable or almost comparable to Daniel Jackson, instead of merely an acquaintance.

Interesting. I wonder if I can achieve such a rapport with him, on my own. Then I will have another civilian friend out of Stargate Command aside from Krista.

A _warrior-like_ civilian friend, perhaps, but still a civilian.

It is an encouraging thought, when one realises that one’s circle of friends and family – one’s _conscience_ and _support_ – has shrunk so much without one’s awareness of such alarming development.

**O-O-O-O**

O’Neill regretably could not stay long, given his new status as Head of Stargate Command. He has given the current SG-1 permission to brief Henry Evans as stipulated on the contract, however, and leave for us to stay as long as we wish as long as Stargate Command does not need us _and_ we report the “nitty-gritty details” personally and privately to him later.

Major Carter and Daniel Jackson take to the instruction with gusto. They have been describing and telling small stories about the Chappa’ai and Stargate Command, in any case, and demanding details pertaining to “magic” and the community of those who use it, all throughout the day.

I content myself with my silent observation of both Henry Evans and his home, meanwhile, and notice how _unusual_ both the home and the owner are – more unusual than I previously noticed – the longer I observe them in close proximity.

Spacial orientation on this third level of the establishment is hard to gauge and calculate for, for one, although the alterations are subtle enough that my teammates, engrossed in questioning and answering Henry Evans, do not seem to notice. Room dimensions and distances seem ordinary until one looks closer, and return to “ordinary” once more when one no longer pays close attention to such details. This ever-shifting perception is most unnerving, in fact, and I find myself regretably hesitating on agreeing to live here when not on mission.

Henry Evans himself is… strangely familiar, the longer I stay in close proximity to him, and not only because of his eyes. The feeling of familiarity seems to increase with each morsel of food and each swallow of beverage that I partake of. However, my comrades do not seem to notice it.

I _need_ to investigate this, as soon and as deeply as possible. Therefore, I make known my wish to stay here longer, when night deepens and my comrades excuse themselves regretfully, with promises to visit soon.

“I wish to ask my own questions,” I reason, when a pleasantly surprised Daniel Jackson asks why.

Major Carter laughs and blushes. “We monopolised Harry’s time, didn’t we? Sorry, Teal’c!” she manages, echoed with similar reaction by Daniel Jackson.

And, flanked by my comrades, Henry Evans sends me a _knowing_ glance, before teasing Major Carter about her prior claim of observant manner.

The _need_ to know burns ever fiercer in my chest, because of that.

**O-O-O-O**

“Daniel told me your people were once brought from round here, by the parasitic snake-like beings that ruled here thousands of years ago and pretended to be gods and goddesses,” is what Henry Evans says, softly, as we watch the car that have come for my comrades and me speed away down the deserted road.

“Indeed,” I affirm, curious by the seeming non-sequitur.

“Have you never wondered whom your Earth ancestors were and if you shared blood with any still living here?” he continues, and my heart somehow jolts and squirms in my chest.

“As you said, it has been thousands of years,” I point out, in my level-most tone, although my heart is now pounding harder and harder against my ribcage.

He nods. “Magical communities like the past so much,” he confides after a pause, as we continue our way back to where he lives; yet another seeming non-sequitur. “Traditions, ancestry, heirlooms – well, _all_ that. Some families can even trace themselves thousands of years back, by record or by a specific artefact.”

I wish to urge him to come quickly to the point that he wanted to make with these statements, and yet, at the same time, I wish he would never come to that point.

Hope is a terrible, terrible thing, and I wish to avoid it, although now I am _painfully_ aware that, all this time, I have apparently been harbouring such myself – to find _good-hearted unknown relatives_ , even.

Expectations and goals are good to have, to pursue, but not _hope_.

Because hope, like love, can break someone into irretrievable pieces, or change the person to the point of unrecognisability.

But, regardless of my wishes, come to the point he does, when we are once more seated in his living area in opposite armchairs, undistracted by anything: “What did you feel, when you drank and ate the things I made myself?”

“Familiarity,” I give back just as bluntly.

He replies with only a bittersweet smile, for a while, his eyes dark and faraway. And then, in a similarly faraway tone, he murmurs, “I wished for a family of my own, for the longest time. I nearly had it, once. Then I found some, just when I thought everything was going to end, that year.”

Still entranced by his own recollection, his hands – laid on his lap – move, one rubbing at a specific spot on the other.

And, in the next second, another person _materialises_ beside his armchair, coalescing together like coloured pieces of fog made clear and solid: a large, muscled man with rough features, as bald as I am, with skin and eyes as dark as mine are, bare-footed and bare-chested, garbed only in a simple loincloth.

I jump to my feet, startled and wary.

Henry Evans also rises to his feet, after a pause as if to gather his thoughts or will or even courage, smoothly and calmly, and softly announces, “Teal’c, meet Black, our shared ancestor.”


	3. A Reason to Live

Getting first-hand information of how the Goa’uld ruled Taur’i thousands of years ago has been… interesting. Knowing how my line began, even more.

Knowing that I have _magic_ running in my blood, not only naquada from the symbiote that has now been replaced with tretonin, meanwhile, however slight it might be, is… _unfathomable_. It is as unfathomable as the concept of getting the first two kinds of information from a person who should have left no trace in the universe by now but for some bone dust is, and I am _experiencing_ the latter in real life.

Black and Henry Evans give me identical knowing, understanding looks as they further explain, in turns, that magic will induced familiarity in items that one imbibes or grasps _only_ if the recipiant has even the slightest magic – _inherited_ magic shared with the inducer – in their veins to reciprocate it. And I cannot refute this assertion.

Truth be told, a large part of me do not wish to do so, anyway.

I have an unknown family member – or is it family _members_? – and I have _magic_ , as well, in however little amount.

Magic. The sort of thing that children whisper about and adults scoff about, among the Jaffa and humans under the rule of Apophis and most likely other Goa’uld. The sort of thing that ignorant people claim the Goa’uld have, too.

Not a superstition. _No longer_. Not an abstract concept, either, as I have seen applied in the dizzying dimensions in this place with my own eyes.

Something that _I_ have, apparently.

Does Rya’c have it? Will his children have it?

Can we _use_ it? If we can….

Nonetheless, I dare ask _only_ when the night has begun to turn into morning and we migrate to the kitchen, after some time mulling over the information that they have given me while listening to them chatter with each other like an uncle and nephew would: “Can I affect magic, with what I have?”

If I _can_ , if _Rya’c_ can, if there are items that I – or _we_ – can use because of this specific energy running in my – _our_? – veins, just like how the Goa’uld monopolise the use of specific items such as their personal shield and healing devise….

“In a small amount, maybe. Most likely more of a perception of things otherwise unseen, or being able to go to places warded against non-magical people, rather than active use,” Henry Evans replies knowingly as he measures up chocolate powder and dumps it into a rather small, cylindrical pot. “But not everything in the magical world is worth seeing anyway.” He murmurs the last more to himself, but I can still hear him.

“Such as?” I inquire, and Henry Evans jumps a little, apparently not realising that I can hear him.

He does not act upset _at all_ , however, or at least not about me overhearing him it seems, when he answers, “Soul-sucking creatures, a madman with snake-like face, some spectacular bigoted sneers….”

“I wish we bonded long before that. I could have helped you more, then,” Black laments as Henry Evans trails off into not-so-pleasant reminiscence, and it sounds like an old regret, oft-spoken. Yet another _seeming_ non-sequitur, I believe, and I inwardly perk up as I note that.

Henry Evans shrugs, and smiles a little, wanly and ruefully. “I don’t think Sirius could’ve supported you if he ever took the lordship, after twelve years in Azkaban, and I certainly couldn’t, since I was thirteen then. I _wouldn’t_ , at that, even if I could, to be honest. I was already short enough, physically. I certainly didn’t want my magic to be just as short. And you said yourself bonding with a child would risk stunting the child’s magic.”

` _Bonding!_ ` my mind screams.

“Bonding?” I cut in, staring sharply at Black. This sounds suspiciously like the parasitic nature of the symbiotes, whether Goa’uld or Tok’ra – more Tok’ra than Goa’uld in this case, _but still_.

However, it is Henry Evans who speaks, instead of Black. “Bonding,” he affirms, firmly, “but not really like the snake-like things. It _could_ be like that, but not always. Black, would you like to explain it or shall I?”

Black explains, at times added on by Henry Evans, and so I learn about soul anchors, sacrifices, and the uses as well as the methods of their making. I learn about human willing sacrifice, death ward, soul magic, and how potant a magical blood is – blood that _I_ also have, apparently. I also learn that Black sacrificed himself to protect his family – including me and mine – thousands of years ago, that Henry Evans’ mother once sacrificed herself willingly and saved him from a weapon – a curse – previously thought to be unblockable and kill on touch, that the blood of Henry Evans himself was then used as an unwilling sacrifice to resurrect his enemy.

My mouth and throat dry up. My heart begin to pound. – If I could sacrifice myself to ensure that my family will live on in safety and happiness….

“How?” I let out, and blink as I hear my own voice croak.

Henry Evans glares at me, while Black seems to silently approve of my veiled request instead, judging by the latter’s expression.

”Don’t throw your life away,” Henry Evans says curtly. His glare intensifies for a moment, before he looks away and, busying himself with making hot chocolate, softly reveals, “Even if we’d have to live in the run, even if we’d have to fight Voldemort every so often, I would have appreciated still having my parents. To be with, to share things with, to fight for, maybe even to get siblings from….”

His voice quivers a little near the end, and my heart squeezes in empathy.

Once, I was an outcast alongside my mother, after Chronos had killed my father most tortuously for losing an impossible battle. If Mother knew, she could have sacrificed herself at the earliest time possible so that I would never have to evade Chronos’ henchmen that sometimes came to terrorise us. However, somehow, I am _glad_ that she never knew, that she was there to be with me, to share in my triumphs and heartaches, until she died when we were ambushed by a greater number of the said henchmen on the way home from the market, two years after we had settled in Chulak.

But she _still_ died for me, died so that I could escape and live, died so that I could grow up as strong as my name means, died so that I could _not only_ avenge my father and her but also have a family of my own – to have a future I could be proud of, however much one could have while being a warrior slave to the Goa’uld.

Do I have a death ward – _her_ death ward – on me, then? Or does such ward need some specific knowledge for it to be activated? Or did I inherit the magical line from my father, instead of my mother?

Nevertheless, in any case, I do have magic, however slight, and Black told me some parameters about establishing a death ward, so can I do the same for my son, or my companions, or even this previously unknown relative of mine?

Henry Evans asked me not to throw my life away, but I would not just “throw” my life away if I did have a good, useful purpose for ending it at the right time, would I?

A scraping sound on the table startles me into looking up from staring at the grains of wood on its surface, which I _did not realise_ I was doing, and I stare right into Henry Evans’ glowering, not-so-human eyes.

“Don’t you have anything or anybody to keep you interested in living?” he asks in a tight voice that seems to mask so many things. His expression turns darker and darker the longer I pause to think on the person or thing that might fit the criterion.

“How long have you gone on this way, Teal’c?” he whispers at length, with a knowing and _empathising_ look in his eyes.

“It could be that I am just reluctant to share the individuals or causes that keep me living until now,” I return levelly.

“But you aren’t, are you? Else you’d look secretive instead of lost,” he retorts, albeit not unkindly.

My eyes widen. I cannot help it. How did he know? Not even SG-1 – my comrades of many years through thick and thin, closer than I was with many fellow Jaffa – have managed to read my expression accurately – if I do not wish them to do so in the first place, that is.

Henry Evans snorts a laugh; partly amused, partly ironic, and grim all in all. “I just _needed_ to be observant since I was pretty small, Teal’c. No worries. Shan’t tell anybody about your tells. Family sticks together, no?”

He sounds _bitter_ at the end, and the first part of his statement has not given me a good impression about his past, either. But he shakes his head when I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t ask,” he says. “Not yet. Maybe someday. And I’ll ask the same of you. For now, just, drink your chocolate and let’s go to bed.”

“I promise you, Henry Evans, your secrets will not–,” I begin, but he cuts me off with an urgent look and gesture of his hand.

“Don’t promise things if you can’t fulfil them,” he implores. “Unless it’s a lie right from the start and you know it even if the other party doesn’t. I would’ve known, though, and I’d be _highly insulted_ if you did intend to lie to me about this promise. Your word binds you, literally. We look human, Teal’c, but we’re not really human. Once, humans mingled with magical beings, and we’re their offspring. There’s veela, jötnar, muspl, nifl….”

“The races sound familiar, except for the first one,” I observe, acquiescing to the subject change with rather little grace.

Henry Evans nods, and I would wager that I have just seen relief briefly pass across his expression. “They would, if you ever read Norse myths,” he acknowledges. “I got muspl from Black, then jötnar down the line. You got muspl from Black, but I don’t know what else. Can’t be just one, if you’ve still got this much after thousands of years away.” There is _something_ that he conceals from me, especially during his recitation of his own lineage, judging from the odd note it takes, but I leave it be for now.

I have my own secrets, myself, some of which not even SG-1 or my wife and son know.

One of those, not even Master Bratac knows.

And there has been a promise tied to that secret, while Henry Evans said that our word is binding, not only by our own code of honour.

Maybe, at least until that promise is fulfilled, until I find something else or one of my enemies defeat me, I _do_ have yet another reason to live.


End file.
